


Like Smoke We Rise, Like Rain We Fall

by Littlevoidpuff



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Death, F/F, F/M, Gore, Multi, Other, a lot of violence (although this is a skyrim fic so thats pretty par for the course), warnings for a ton of ocs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlevoidpuff/pseuds/Littlevoidpuff
Summary: Mastering yourself is true power, or so they say, but when your heart burns with the ferocity of a wildfire, and your temper flares like the sun, reigning yourself in is difficult. Having the soul of a dragon and the ability to breathe fire doesn't really help either, but Jura Rhapsodos has everything under control. That is, if she ignored the ancient Dragon calamity of legend, the harbinger of the end, demanding her allegiance, as well as the vampire hunters demanding she lend her talents to their cause, and her ex with some serious family issues getting involved in the civil war, and that's not even considering her own personal vendetta against the Thalmor who despise her existence, or the very frustrating and frustrated first Dragonborn that can't be bothered to learn her fucking name. Oh, and pretty much everything is on fire and she may or may not be responsible! Yeah, things are going great.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak
Kudos: 9





	1. Those Who Seek

Deep in the city beneath the city, countless sorts of scoundrels scurried about. Everyone knew that if you needed a thief or a cutthroat, the Ragged Flagon was the place to look. Heavy steel boots struck stone with a harsh clang with every falling footstep, and though the Orc twisted his nose at the stench permeating through the sewers, he trudged forward, going deeper into the bowels. He sought a killer, a specific killer with specific tools at her disposal and a specific mindset, and though he knew not if she would join his cause, those with no choice must make do with what tools they could wrap their claws around, and forge others themselves, and he, no, _they_ had no choice. No choice but to wade through sewage to enlist the aid of one who could be an infamous adversary or the most ardent ally they could hope for. But first, he had to find her, and that proved to be a more aggravating task than he’d originally thought.

_Rhapsodos._ The name was all he had to go off of, and it was an old one. Aldmeri, according to the research that Florentius had done, and like many old Aldmeri names, there was a noble family in the Thalmor with that very name, and yet, despite that, he’d been told he wasn’t looking for an Altmer, he was looking for a Nord, and though he had his doubts there were many Nords running around with an Elven surname, he didn’t think his target would be easy to find, and he had his doubts the person in question would actually be down here. Mages tended not to prefer this kind of squalor, after all, lest they were necromancers, and it was her infamous hatred of necromancers that had him seeking her out in the first place.

Shaking his pessimistic concern of her not being here from his mind, he opened the door to the Flagon, and immediately wrinkled his nose at the stench worsening. Biting back bile, he trudged forward and kept a careful eye where he stepped, avoiding the puddles of what may not be water as he stepped forward into the light of the tavern. Though he kept his eyes straight forward, he was all too aware of the eyes falling on him, sizing him up like a saber-cat contemplating whether it should pounce on dangerous looking prey. While he certainly wasn’t frightened of any of these vagrants, he didn’t come here to make enemies, but he also didn’t come here to get robbed, or stabbed in the back.

“You’re lookin a little lost here. I’d be careful if I were you. After all, people who come to the Ratway lookin for trouble tend to find it. And they don’t tend to walk out afterward either.” A bald man counting coins at one of the tables stated without even sparing a glance up at him as if he were as insignificant as the insects buzzing around the cistern.

The Orc frowned at the thinly veiled threat, though he swallowed the urge to respond in kind, and crossed his arms as he scrutinized each of the people lurking in the tavern. The enforcer he passed on the way in had a hand on the hilt of his weapon already. The woman leaning against crates appeared to be sleeping, but he had his doubts that she actually was. The man behind the bar was cleaning glasses, but his eyes were on the intruder in his bar, and he leaned down to whisper something to the bald man in guild armor who’d spoken, who gave him a nod in response. Lounging across the top of the crates was a third figure in Thieves Guild armor, but with their hood up, he couldn’t tell who or what they were. The third figure appeared to be sleeping as well, but the firm grip on the dagger at their waist stated otherwise. All of these people looked ready to strike him down, but he didn’t plan for the situation to come to that.

“I’m looking for someone.” He stated simply as his gaze fell upon each person in there, silently wondering who among them, if any, were the person he was seeking out. “Does the name Rhapsodos mean anything to any of you?” He asked, though he doubted any would answer, not without some proper motivation, but from the look the two men at the bar exchanged, he knew they had one.

“That depends.” The blonde woman leaning against the crates asked, as the figure on top of them slowly sat up, though their face was still obscured by their hood, he was all too aware of their eyes burning into him.

“On what, exactly?” He asked, though he had no doubt the amount he was willing to pay was probably at the top of the list.

“On who you’re workin for, for starters.” The bald man spoke up now, his original task of counting coins forgotten as he rose to his feet, and positioned himself to stand by the woman in front of the crates. “And why you’re lookin for her.”

The Orc tilted his head ever so slightly as he mulled over what to tell these people. He didn’t plan on sharing much with people who might host vampires in their midst, and he knew thieves like these tended not to care about things like vampirism, but he did, and he didn’t want any of those bloodsuckers to possibly know who they might be looking to recruit, but at the same time, it wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter. Not now, not if he wanted the information he sought.

“I’m with the Dawnguard.” He answered simply at first, before elaborating, “And we want to recruit Jura Rhapsodos.”

A laugh, soft and quiet, escaped the figure relaxing on the crate and they shook their head slowly at his words before slinging their legs over the side of the crates, and hopped down in one fluid motion. They rubbed their hands together, as if trying to wipe the grime of this sewer off them, before tugging their hood down revealing sable hair and an almost wicked grin that reminded him of a hyena, or a mischievous fox.

“So that’s why? You shoulda said that from the beginning. Woulda saved us all time.” The raven-haired girl stated as she stepped forward into the light of the tavern, coal eyes glistening like oil with dark amusement as the light hit them. “But I’m afraid you’re shit outta luck.”

The Orc regarded her quietly as she spoke, eyeing her critically. She was a Nord, but at the same time, it seemed like she wasn’t the one he was looking for. “And why’s that?” He asked politely, keeping a cordial tone since it seemed they were willing to play nice, for the moment at least.

“Cuz Jura ain’t here, and she doesn’t come here.” She answered with a laugh and shook her head. “I mean, ya did find a Rhapsodos, you found me, so congrats on that, but I don’t have my sister’s talents, and when it comes to huntin anything that’s walking and talking but shouldn’t be, you’re right, Jura’s the one ya want.”

Disappointed, but not surprised, the Orc found the information both curious and interesting, but unfruitful at the same time.

“In that case, it’s been a pleasure, but this hasn’t helped at all.” He stated with a sigh and turned on his heel to leave the den of iniquity.

“Not a very good recruiter to be wanderin off like that, are ya?” The Rhapsodos snickered, and when he looked over his shoulder to fix her with a scowl, he saw she had that same devious smile. “Not even gonna ask where to find her? I guess you don’t want her joining very much, do you?”

“Not if she’s as childish as you.” He answered bluntly, though it wasn’t quite true. Isran was willing to put up with almost any behavior, so long as the person it came from was useful against the vampires, and if this mage was as good as they’d heard, she’d be worth it. _Hopefully_.

“Nah, she’s not. It’s my job to be the family disappointment.” She laughed as she messed with her hair slowly, plucking at the thin braid tucked behind her ear before unraveling it carefully, with the precision one might take when gutting a fish, twisting the strands between her fingers, before raking it back into the rest with a bored expression.

The Orc turned to face her fully again, a deep frown etched into his face like cracks in stone. He was already bored of her games and her jests, finding such behavior to be unbecoming of an adult, though a glance at the two older thieves flanking her told him this was normal behavior, but more importantly, they both wore a harsh, dangerous look in their eyes, a look that silently screamed a warning. _Make a move against her, and we’ll cut you down._ He grimaced as he took a step forward, and hands were on hilts instantly as a more substantial warning, or so he supposed. _So there’s loyalty among thieves after all._

“So, where do I find her then?” He asked politely but refused to beat around the bush further. The sooner he left this place, the better.

“Well...”

* * *

The sound of creaking wood was the first thing she noticed as she roused from the dreamless depths of unconsciousness, but the second was the thick, iron taste of blood in her mouth, coating her tongue like honey, but not nearly as sweet. The dull, throbbing pain in her head came next, and then a strange, harsh burning as something hot seared into her chest, hidden under her clothes pulsating with magic against her skin before fading, and finally, a muffled groan spilled out of her lips as she tried to open her eyes, only to be assailed by the light stabbing into her like daggers, but as she tried to raise her arms to block it out, her limbs were sluggish, and heavy, but most importantly, bound.

_Bound? Why was she bound? Where was she?_ The questions poured forth in her mind, and though the sun showed no mercy on her aching head and shined down with all of its might, sky blue eyes forced themselves to open, and she looked around slowly and realized she was not somewhere she should be. She should be naked in a warm bed, covered from head to toe in the warmest furs to be found in Skyrim, preferably with an old friend also in her bed, with a roaring fire five feet away to ensure the room was hotter than the Daedric forges in the Badlands of Mehrune Dagon’s lair. Sore, bleeding, and tied up like an animal about to be slaughtered in a cart filled with unfamiliar faces all wearing the same navy armor was _not_ how she pictured her weekend going, and yet, as she glanced over, and saw her father was in the same position as her, she knew she had only herself to blame for the predicament she found herself in. She knew something like this might happen, and yet, she’d gone to meet him anyway.

The father she’d never known. The father that, in twenty years, she’d never met. The father left to rot in prison while she was left to be raised by her grandfather in that palace that was also her prison. The father many derided as a murderer, a madman, and a monster, but her father all the same, and though she’d known it was dangerous, she wanted to know him herself. She wanted to figure out the truth for herself, rather than listen to the words others spoke, regardless of the consequences. Well, it seemed these were the consequences.

While lost in thought, her father looked over at her as well, and as their eyes met, there was a look in his eyes, but she hadn’t any idea what it might be. Sorrow? Rage? Regret? She couldn’t tell. How could she? She didn’t know him, so trying to figure out what he might be feeling, if anything at all, was impossible. Predicting the future would be easier, but based on the bickering between one of her father’s soldiers and another of the prisoners, it seemed their future was pretty obvious.

She looked away from her father, and found herself grateful they were both gagged, as she wasn’t sure what she’d even say if they could actually speak. This was her fault, after all. They were caught because of her. If she hadn’t asked him to meet her, to meet her outside the city, they’d both be free as birds right now. But she did, and he’d agreed, and now they were both prisoners. She could only pray he didn’t think she set him up, but how would he know? It wasn’t as though he could predict what she’d do any more than she could predict his feelings, but she prayed. She prayed to Stendarr or Akatosh or Talos or to any gods that might be listening, and feel merciful enough to answer, that he did not think she’d so callously betray him like this.

But if the gods were listening, they did not grace her with an answer, not in the form of hope or relief or even a single drop of mercy. The wagons continued onwards, her father’s soldiers continued to bicker among themselves, and she couldn’t find it in her to look at any of them, as surely they all blamed her for this. Instead, she turned her attention down to her bound and bruised wrists, and started twisting them slowly, trying to get a good feel for how tight they were, and to her surprised, not very.

Lysandra Stormcloak was no thief, nor assassin, nor vagrant or scoundrel of any sort, but she grew up being best friends with the daughters of retired assassins, and she wasn’t a stranger to being playfully tied up and tossed into a cushioned basement in mock kidnappings and expected to escape on her own. _“It’s good practice!”_ The twins would giggle as they worked to slip out of their own bounds tied by their parents. _“We’ll need it someday!”_ They’d say as they coached her on how to twist her wrists just right, teaching her how to dislocate her own fingers to slip out, or how to unravel the knots with nothing more than her teeth. Even though she’d never been abducted before now, and never did anticipate it happening, she was thankful for the lessons as she kicked the soldier sitting across from her, before gesturing to the gag silently, and turned her back to him so he’d take it off. They could move their hands enough for that, but she’d need her mouth free to fully free her hands.

When she felt the gag loosen and fall around her neck, she turned to sit properly on the wagon seat again and muttered a quiet thanks to the man who removed it before silently getting to work on the ropes around her hands, being careful not to draw the attention of the Imperial Soldiers driving the wagon as she kept biting and tugging and nipping at the ropes to loosen them up until finally, she slipped her hands out from their bindings.

With her hands free, she reached under her robes to pull out the source of the burning she felt earlier, a glossy large chunk of ruby, loving sculpted into a glistening pendulum that on first glance appeared to be nothing more than an extravagant piece of jewelry, but those with a critical eye for magic, like her, could see the tiny runes, delicately and painstakingly carved into the facets of the gem, but few had the talent for enchanting necessary to tell what magic it might be imbued with by simply looking. Though it was dark and lifeless now, she _knew_ she’d felt it burn with magic when she first woke up, but knowing the enchantment had been activated wasn’t the same thing as being certain the one who made it was anywhere nearby.

A kick from the soldier across from her snatched her attention like a hawk plucking a sparrow from midair, and she suddenly realized the wagons had rolled into a village, and she was quick to stuff the pendulum back into her robes and retied the rope around her wrist, or so it would appear, and she was counting on the likelihood that no one would bother to actually check.

“Looks like the end’s come faster than I thought it would.” She muttered under her breath to the soldier across from as the Imperials barked for the prisoners to get off the carts, and like the rest of them, she rose to her feet. As she got up and hopped off the cart, she glanced around the little village and realized she was in Helgen. She’d only been there a few times to pick up or deliver items to be enchanted, or already enchanted by the College, but it was enough to recognize the village, and to recognize some of the people there.

But as she stepped forward and her name was called by the Imperial commander, her eyes fell on a familiar figure who didn’t belong in this little village any more than she did. Lounging like a lazy cat sunning itself on a particularly warm rock, casually sipping out of a silver flask, was one of the twins.

* * *

  
  


She’d arrived there a week ago, and the villagers thought from the fine, fur-lined cloak, and golden circlet holding back flaming scarlet hair, that she was a noble. The gleaming horse she’d rode in on had clearly never pulled a plow in its life, the leather of its saddle glistening, well oiled, and appeared as though it had never been used before or that the owner despised dirt like the Thalmor despised the Nords of this land. Despite surely possessing more wealth than all of them put together, the woman had been utterly polite, soft-spoken, and made no rude demands of any of them.

She’d claimed to be awaiting a friend coming over from Cyrodil, and so she’d asked for a room at the inn, though she claimed to only intend to stay a few weeks, she’d paid enough gold, according to the innkeeper, that he could shut down the tavern for a year without an issue. She’d stayed in the attic room, and came down often to make polite conversation with the villagers, and would discuss anything from magic to the war to how crops were faring up in the snowier parts of the province.

The villagers of Helgen all agreed: she was eccentric but polite, and they were content with her presence there, but as some came outside to watch the executions while others urged their children inside and to avert their eyes, none of them expected the stranger to step forward once names were called, only to ask a question that shook all of them.

“Is my name on that list? Because if not, it rather should be. If I recall, tall, dark, and crispy there has been looking for me.” She’d stated and jabbed her thumb towards a horrifically burned Thalmor riding atop a dark horse, before turning to him and stating politely, “Nice to meet you, Karentus. I’m here to finish the job my father started. You remember him, don’t you? You should, since he’s your brother, and you killed him.”


	2. The Burden of Bonds

Jura rarely ventured as far south as Whiterun unless she was being hired for a job, and she had been, in a way. Jura didn’t consider favors she did for her sister to be actual jobs since she didn’t get paid for them, but if Lyra needed something done, she wouldn’t turn her down. All the twins had left was each other, after all.

So a little request to clear out some draugr in Volunrund brought her down from Winterhold, and like most undead, the draugr weren’t any match for her magic. She’d tailored her skills specifically to kill undead after all, so it took less than a day for her to finish clearing the ruin, ignoring the noble and his entourage hiding in their little alcove, and before she knew it, she was back in the Bannered Mare, relaxing as she scrawled out her quick message to Lyra, fully intending to _borrow_ a bird from Farengar to send it to her as she had absolutely no desire to ride all the way out to Riften to tell her in person when it happened.

The sapphire pendulum dangling loosely from around her neck lit up with a vibrant glow, like lightning arcing across the sky, and seared like ice against her skin where it laid, buried in her clothes to be forgotten. With a soft hiss, she pulled it out of her robes and scowled down at the glowing gem, the intricate runes etched into its surface emitting the sky blue light associated with _her_ magic.

_Lysandra… So you ran into trouble after all. I tried to tell you it was a bad idea, but you wouldn’t listen. No, you just had to go meet Ulfric, and now you’re in danger._ The one-eyed mage’s frown deepened when the pendulum’s glow dimmed to a faint luminescence barely visible even in the dimly lit bar. _But you’re not dead yet. I can tell. I hope you don’t expect me to come to your rescue though._ She grumbled to herself bitterly as she closed her eyes and dropped the pendulum, letting it fall back against her chest with a light thump, and picked her drink back up, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of the night relaxing, and ignoring Lysandra, and the knowledge that, just as she’d predicted, her little meet and greet with Ulfric had likely ended in disaster.

She’d told Lysandra if she were caught by the Imperials meeting with her father, that they’d consider her to be one of his men, but she’d been insistent, and she hadn’t listened, and even after Jura explicitly stated that if she were captured by the Imperials, she wouldn’t waste her time rescuing her. And now, that seemed to be the case. Jura knew Lysandra wasn’t dead, the pendulum would’ve shattered if she’d died, but instead, it was still dimly lit, like a half-dead lantern, a dull flame still desperately burning and clinging to life.

“Not happening.” She scolded herself as the thought that she should go find her wormed into her mind. “She brought this on herself.” She reminded herself under her breath, but the words brought her no comfort as the pendulum hanging loose around her neck weighed down against her, and the light pressure against her chest felt as though her ribs had been smashed in by a war hammer. The insidious idea that _she might actually die if I just sit here and do nothing_ snaked into her head and coiled around her heart like a python, constricting tighter and tighter until she felt it may burst.

With an exasperated groan, she forced herself to her feet and unraveled her map of the province before pulling the delicate gold chain the pendulum hung from off her neck. Leaving it unclasped, she let the pendulum slide to one end, and with a steady hand, let it hang over the map. Focusing her Magicka on the pendulum, glistening amber light flowed down the chain from her hand, and surrounded the sapphire, and at her gentle push, it began to rock, slowly, swaying back and forth from Windhelm to a spot on the map where the Rift, Eastmarch, and Whiterun holds all blended together, before circling the spot slowly, and stopping, hovering over that one location.

_So that’s where you are, Lysandra? That’s not too far away._ She told herself, but as she re-clasped the chain back around her neck, letting the sapphire thump against her chest, she snorted derisively and shook her head. _But I’m still not coming to get you. Figure this mess out yourself. You’re a grown ass woman after all, capable of making your own decisions and thinking for yourself._ Jura silently mocked the words Lysandra said to her weeks ago when they argued over this very thing, and though she knew it was petty and childish, she was still angry, and instead of pulling her cloak back on and running out the door to her rescue, she kicked her boots off and curled up in the bed she’d rented for the night.

“I am _not_ going to go save her ass.” She ordered herself once again as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Jura kept telling herself over and over that she wasn’t going to go rescue Lysandra, but that didn’t stop her from continuously tracking her for the next few days, and when she figured out her captors were taking the south road to Cyrodil, it didn’t stop her from taking her horse, and riding down to Helgen, as she figured by the route they were taking, they’d likely stop there to resupply before crossing the border. It didn’t stop her from staying there until they arrived, and it didn’t stop her from locking eyes with the necromancer.

Even though Jura hadn’t decided on how she’d end up rescuing her, she realized she had to come up with a plan, and fast, since she’d misjudged the Imperials, and it seemed as though they planned to execute every last one of them right here, right now, and silently, she was thankful she decided to come after all, but being here meant nothing if she couldn’t stop the executions, and while she didn’t give a damn if Ulfric and every single one of his soldiers died screaming, she wouldn’t allow him to drag Lysandra down with him, even if it meant sparing _his_ life as well.

As the Stormcloaks clambered off the carts and lined up one by one, Jura scrambled to come up with a plan, and as her eyes scanned the crowd of onlookers, her heart stopped in her chest when her eyes landed on a familiar Altmer. Even with half his face burned and disfigured, she’d recognize him anywhere, but that was a bit of an issue, considering she knew for a fact that she’d already buried the man with that face. But she knew full well that twins ran in her family’s blood, according to her father.

Fury ran hot through her veins like magma and before she could stop herself or think better of it, she walked straight up to the Imperial commander calling names off that list and looked her straight in the eyes as she asked if her name was on it as well.

Time around her seemed to halt as the words left her lips and more pairs of eyes than she could count turned to fall on her at her audacious words. She forced a smirk to her lips as she turned to goad the Thalmor further, and fought not to display her rage and her hatred all over her face as she took a step forward, making sure she walked straight and held her head tall, and kept any of her weaknesses out of sight because the Thalmor were like sharks if they smelled any blood in the water, any weakness in the air, they’d hone right in and devour the source, no matter who, or what, that source was.

“Nice face, by the way. I see my father decided to take a page or two out of my book during your last encounter. I’d say it’s a shame you survived, but that’d be a lie. I’m actually delighted.” She stated cheerfully before her voice took on a darker tone. “It means I get to end your life myself.”

The Thalmor in question turned to her slowly, and there was no mistaking the hatred in his eyes as he dismounted his horse. A snarl more suitable for a dog than a dignified Mer slipped past his lips as he stalked forward, and loomed down over her, violet energy crackling at his fingertips as sparks flew from finger to finger in a frantic flurry as he fought to contain his own rage.

“You’re either very brave or very stupid to dare show your face so openly in the presence of the Thalmor.” He hissed down at her, vitriolic words dripping like venom from his lips as the entire village turned their attention onto them. “Not even taking into consideration the blatant disregard for your own life to dare challenge me, to bring my attention to you… I would’ve thought my brother’s spawn would’ve had more sense than that, but I see I overestimated your intelligence, half breed.”

Brushing off his words as if they were snow, Jura rolled her shoulders slowly before shrugging them, as she looked up at him with a polite smile, a smile that didn’t match the look in her remaining golden eye, the quiet fury simmering under the surface, like water on the verge of boiling, or the faint embers glowing with a dim light, right before being blown into an inferno.

“On the contrary, you’ve not overestimated me at all.” She denied his claims with a light shake of her head, before letting her polite facade drop like an anchor in the sea as fire flooded her veins, and the air around them crackled with unreleased energy, causing the snow drifting lazily down to melt before landing on them. “You’ve underestimated my fury.” She growled like an ancient, angry, forgotten creature of legend, and in that moment, time crawled to a halt as a haze of heat filtered through Helgen, and slowly, as if wading through mud up to her waist, she raised her hand, golden flames sprung to life in her hands, flickering hungrily as they fluttered like birds on the wind between her fingertips, eager to devour anything she deigned to feed them, but before she released her spell and her rage upon the last of her family, the world shook around her, and she crumpled to the ground as her once shattered knee gave out at the unexpected blow to her balance. She dropped the spell as she fell, but she didn’t see where her magic landed as she struggled to climb back to her feet, glancing around to see she wasn’t the only one who fell. Jura struggled back onto her feet, and as she looked around, she found herself struck by the visage of the abyssal creature perched like a bird atop the tower of the garrison, a creature that could only be a _dragon_.

The dragon raked its burning gaze across the village before resting its crimson eyes on her. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought it was studying her and as her heart leaped into her throat, a twisted concoction of fear, and something else burning in her chest, she shrank back under its scrutiny. She didn’t have time to wonder what it was thinking as it opened its maw wide, displaying rows of teeth sharper than the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, and it _spoke_.

And at its command, the sky shattered, and fire and death poured forth like rain.


	3. Rage and Regret

Screams. Screams of the afraid and screams of the dying filled the air as the people around her saw what she saw and heard what she heard, and some drew their weapons to fight, while others fled in fear, all of them struggling, clinging desperately to their lives in whatever way they knew best. _But they didn’t, did they?_ They heard snarls and growls and the bursting of stone as it fell from the sky, the roaring of fire as it spread across the village, sinking its fangs into anyone, into anything unfortunate enough to step too close to its hungry jaws. _But they didn’t hear the words behind the snarls, did they? They didn’t hear the voice behind the growl, did they?_ They scurried like ants and they fought like bears, stinging and clawing and biting viciously, frantically, as if they had any say in what happened to them as if they could choose not to die any more than they could’ve chosen to not be born.

_But she couldn’t move._ She was rooted in place, trapped in her spot like a tree planted in the ground, pinned down by the mere visage of the creature. Except, _it wasn’t just a creature, was it?_ She’d heard words. It _spoke_ and mere beasts did not speak. Gold met scarlet in a concoction of fire and light, and she’d never seen anything so red. The dragon opened its mouth once again, but this time, no destruction poured forth, no flames rained down, _words came out_ , words she didn’t know how she understood, but she did.

“ _You’ve found yourself in a_ _predicament_ _, haven’t you? How long has it been, Viinaaz?”_ The words made no sense to her, but at the same time, they did. Though she didn’t recognize the voice or the language or the name spoken, for some reason, somehow, _she understood._ She understood, but couldn’t answer, and after a moment of her silence, the voice, slow and smooth, calm and calculating, came from the dragon again. “ _You hear, but you do not understand. You understand, but you do not know. I see that you need to be reminded of who, and what, you are.”_

Her heart slowed but did not stop as an unnatural calm fell over her as the words flowed through her mind, and even as the clouds above burst into nothing and released their burden in a scarlet and gold shower as if they were the bellies of beasts skewered upon spears, but as the glistening, glittering embers like rain fell, it sizzled against the ground, the trees, her skin, burning through stone and sinew like it was paper, and the faint warmth against her skin grew, it wasn’t enough to drag her out of her trance. A chunk of burning rock sailed through the air past her head, but she didn’t move, and though she heard the scream as it smashed into someone behind her, she didn’t care. _Who died? Did anyone live? Does it matter?_ The questions drifted through her mind slowly, as though they floated in a sea of honey, and her mind refused to grace them with an answer. The scrutiny of the scarlet eyes above her pinned her down. There was a question in those eyes, and she felt her soul burning in her chest as if in answer, but she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand what was being asked, and she didn’t know what response her soul gave.

“ _What are you?”_ The question came from her, though her voice sounded foreign to her ears, as if she were submerged underwater and trying to listen to a conversation on the surface, and that was the only thing she knew for sure at this moment. She knew not the language she spoke, and she didn’t know how she knew it. She didn’t know anything at all. “ _What do you want from me?”_

A ripple, starting from the head, ran down the dragon’s spine, and it seemed to be laughing at her, or at the very least, shaking in amusement. In a single fluid motion, it took to the sky and circled above the village, and as it opened its jaws wide, fire spread like water over another row of houses, the straw and the wood burned like pine needles in a forest fire. Both men and mer alike caught in the path of the conflagration cooked inside their armor, falling to the ground like acolytes before a long forsaken god, their screams falling from their lips like pleas for mercy from one who had none to give.

“ _Everything you think you are is f_ _ake, an elaborate lie forced upon you, false defilement etched into your mind and your body_ _, from the frail mortal skin you wear to the meaningless name lesser beings have forced upon you. Something else, something godly lurks beneath the surface of your soul, you simply don’t remember it.”_ The dragon crooned as it landed on the crumbling stone wall of the village behind her, before lurching its head forward so that, as she turned slowly to face it, the same hazy look in her gold and crimson eyes, they were nearly nose to nose. _“_ _What I want, Viinaaz, is for you to peel back the lies you’ve been convinced were truth your entire life. What I want is for you to remember what you truly are, and who it is you live to serve.”_

She was only faintly aware rough hand gripped her shoulders, and she was being dragged away from the spot, and some primal part of her she didn’t recognize screamed in protest but she couldn’t fight the arms much stronger than her as they ripped her away. The scenery around her changed, but she paid it no mind as she fought not to look away from the dragon, fought to stay put, to ask it what it meant, but as she was dragged away from the spot, the dragon flung itself back into the air with a single beat of its wings, and it was only then that she noticed hands on her shoulders, a figure in front of her, a voice yelling her name. _Her name… What was her name?_

“Jura!” The voice, hard and cold, but so familiar, and though she wasn’t sure why, even comforting? The harsh slap that broke her out of the trance, on the other hand, certainly was not though.

Pain seared through her face and snapped her back to herself and to reality, and it was only then she understood what was happening. Lysandra drug her into a tower with the rest of her father’s soldiers and shoved her down onto the steps leading up the tower. It was only now that she felt the edges of the crumbling stone digging into her back, noticed the ash dusting her shoulders, the mild burn on her face from where the embers landed, though the multitudes of fire-resistant enchantments she wore reduced the damage to nearly nothing. Lysandra was on her knees in front of her now, her hands gripping into her shoulders like talons of a hawk digging into a rabbit, a drastic contrast from the fear in her eyes, and Jura realized she was shaking.

“Jura? Oh, thank Akatosh!” Lysandra whispered and she loosened her claws, though she didn’t relinquish her completely. “You went as pale as the snow! And you just...” She shook her head in disbelief, her shoulders jumping as the tower around them shook and showered them in dust. Whatever she’d been about to say was forgotten as she looked up, before scrambling to her feet.

Jura’s single gold eye darted around the tower, struggling to take in the situation, as she fought to shake the image of those vibrant scarlet eyes from her mind. Whatever spell the dragon cast on her, assuming the dragon was responsible, was shattered and the unnatural calm chaining her heart in place no longer held sway over her.

“Did you hear it?” The words sounded wrong, foreign as they poured from her lips, almost as if she didn’t recognize the language she spoke, but it was Cyrodilliac? She’d spoken it her entire life? What else would she speak? “Did you hear what it was saying?” She whispered as her body shook, though she couldn’t tell why, if it was from fear or confusion or rage, or maybe all three.

“Of course I heard it! It was talking all right!” Lysandra answered incredulous, staring at Jura as if she’d made some asinine comment about the grass being blue or the sky green. “But who knows what it was saying, and who cares?” She demanded as she shook the scarlet haired Nord’s shoulders. “What were you thinking, just standing there like that? You could’ve been killed! It could’ve eaten you, and it's like-” She cut herself off and bit her lip viciously, a thin bead of blood welling up and dripping down her chin. “And it’s like you would’ve let it! Are you...” she began before stopping, an incredulous laugh falling out of her lips as if she couldn’t believe she was even asking the question. “Of course not, of course, you’re not ok. There’s no way you-”

“I’m fine.” The lie fell clumsily from her lips as she cut Lysandra off, but it was all she could do at the moment as she couldn’t stand to listen to her for a moment longer. Anger and fear, but above all, overwhelming confusion raced through her mind but she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the hand Lysandra offered her now in favor of relying on her own strength. “I can’t believe it. That was really a dragon.” She muttered more to herself than to anyone else. It wasn’t as if any of them were actually worth talking to, especially since it seemed like none of them even understood what the dragon had been saying, and if they couldn’t offer her any answers then there was no reason to speak to them. Not to mention, with her awareness returning to her, so did her anger at even being here in the first place, so she wasn’t in the mood to speak to Lysandra either. “The legends are real.”

“I see you’ve not returned to your senses after all. Legends don’t burn down villages.”

An incredulous voice stole her attention and brought a scowl to her lips as she turned to the speaker, a snarl on her lips as her anger rose. Anger was good. It had kept her alive throughout the years, and it would continue to do so. Her anger wasn’t confusing, and it didn’t speak in riddles while it turned a village to ash. Her rage and her magic were the only things she could rely on, it had been proven again and again to her, and she didn’t hesitate to fall back on her most ardent ally now.

“Oh really? Well, why don’t you go tell the fucking dragon that? I’m sure if the _great Ulfric Stormcloak_ says it, the dragon will just fuck right off into nonexistence, and we can go back to the matter at hand!” She snapped, not bothering to hide her ridicule as she spun on her heel to face the Jarl, ignoring Lysandra’s titters of concern behind her, and swatting her hand off her shoulder as if dusting off the ash. “Because in case you didn’t fucking realize this, that dragon is the only reason you’re alive right now because I sure as shit didn’t come here to save any of you. So why don’t you go fucking thank it for being real because if it wasn’t, your head would _not_ be attached to your shoulders!”

Lysandra took a step back away from the fuming pyromancer, jerking her hand away when it’d been knocked away as if she’d tried to pick up a burning ember, and she might as well have, as smoke began to rise from the ground around Jura’s feet as the temperature around her rose in response to her rage, the wood and dust seeped into the cracks between the stones smoking and smoldering at the rising heat.

“So why did you come here then?” Lysandra asked quietly, her eyes on Jura’s back, though they fell to her feet when Jura turned her attention on her, and shame, deep, agonizing shame burned within her as the realization Jura wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for her filled her, and the knowledge she’d put her oldest friend in danger made her heart sink like an anchor in the sea. Even though she didn’t understand what had gotten into her, she worried, because even though Jura had a temper worse than a bear, she’d never just lashed out like this before.

Jura clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth as the familiar heat and power of both magic and rage hummed through her veins, singing the oldest song of destruction with every beat of her heart as the urge to do as the dragon did and just burn this tower to the ground roared in the back of her mind, but she forced the melody to silence as she stepped around Lysandra up the stairs. She knew herself better than this, and even though trying to leash a rabid dog would be easier to rein in her emotions, much less sort them out, she knew better than to act on them now, not when the air was thick with confusion and fear, the tension nearly as tangible as the flaming mortar raining from the skies, even the primal rage of the ancient creature now seeking to bury this entire city in ash and bones smothered them all. The ancient creature who could’ve killed her in innumerable ways, but even as it ripped the village and its inhabitants apart as a hunter would gut a rabbit, it hadn’t drawn a single drop of blood from her, and it left her wondering _why? But she didn’t have time to wonder._

“Stop asking stupid questions and let's go. If we survive this, I can always kill you myself later.” She huffed as she ascended the stairs, and didn’t spare a glance backward to see if Lysandra were following her. Right now, the only thing Jura cared about was escaping Helgen alive, and she didn’t care if she did it with or without Lysandra at this point.

“I didn’t ask you to come rescue me! Don’t blame me for the decisions you made on your own!” Lysandra hissed, stepping away from Jura, and off the stairs in favor of stealing the space between a pair of her father’s soldiers, who glanced at her before sharing a look and seemingly deciding as one to step in front of her.

Jura opened her mouth to retaliate, only to close it slowly and frown because it wasn’t as though Lysandra was _wrong_ , but she didn’t think a shred of gratitude was out of place here. “You know what? You’re right. I never should’ve wasted my time coming here. Don’t worry, it’s a mistake I won’t make a second time.” She agreed, before turning away from her and continuing up the tower without looking back.


	4. Smoke and Shadow

News spread fast when people were terrified, and nothing terrified people like the boogeyman from their legends coming to life and proving the legends were more real than they’d ever want them to be. Lyra wouldn’t be surprised if all of Skyrim were covered in the same thick haze of fear she could taste as she slipped into the Bannered Mare.

She’d gotten the message from Jura about the job being done only a day before the news about Helgen poured into Riften, and it became the talk of the city, even down in the Ratway, and though she knew her sister stated clearly in her letter she wouldn’t be rushing to Lysandra’s rescue, she also knew that, despite their various disagreements, Jura definitely had some lingering feelings for the Stormcloak, and despite her claims, she knew there was no way Jura would just walk away if she thought Lysandra was in danger, even if it meant diving headfirst beneath the waves herself.

She doubted her twin died at Helgen, she was too stubborn to die after all, and she had no doubt that despite her hatred of them, if she had perished, she would’ve risen from the dead. She would’ve forced her soul to remain in her body to keep going. Even after her weapons broke and her legs couldn’t stand, and her heart stopped, Lyra knew that Jura would just pause for a moment, brush off the blood and the dirt and any broken bones and aching hearts, and she’d get up and keep fighting, simply because that was the kind of person she was. She didn’t know how to give up, and when she made her way into the back room, she wasn’t surprised in the slightest to see Jura, smoky and scowling, sitting at the table, familiar silver flask in hand.

Lyra didn’t say anything at first as she slid into the seat across from her twin, and propped her chin upon her elbow and gestured for the barkeep’s assistant, Saadia, to come over and asked for two bottles of Blackbriar Reserve before sending her on her way after she brought them. She remained silent as she set one of the bottles in front of her before popping the cork on her own.

She didn’t have any desire to ask her about Helgen, and from the look on Jura’s face, she didn’t seem in the mood to talk about it either, and she just _knew_ something happened while she was there, and she figured it had to do with more than just her relationship issues with Lysandra.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna, Jura.” She started off, figuring it best to not let whatever thoughts plagued her twin fester, as she set her drink down and fixed her twin, her equal and opposite in every way, with a level look. “But I’m here if you do.” She assured her quietly. She didn’t always understand Jura, as their paths diverged over ten years ago when Jura lost her eye, and any hope of being able to use most weapons properly, but as far as Lyra was concerned, Jura was the only family she had left, and she’d fight every Aedra and Daedra combined to keep her.

_I won’t let anyone take you from me. Not in life, and only in death if I have to. Only the Dread Father will have the privilege of separating us._

Jura interlaced her fingers in front of her, and let out a soft sigh as she leaned her forehead against her hands and closed her eyes. “I’ve never seen such an overwhelming field of blue before.” She whispered, before tapping her pointer finger across her nose, gesturing to her missing eye, which she’d replaced with a very expensive star ruby, one she personally fitted with a detect dead spell to make up for the missing field of vision. “All those people… Dead…” She murmured before opening her eyes to look at her twin. “And I have no idea why I’m not.”

Lyra listened to her curiously, sitting up straight now in her seat so she could give her sister her undivided attention, mirroring her position as she did so, dark eyes narrowing in confusion at her sister’s baffling statement. “Because you’re stubborn? You’re one of the best restoration mages in the country? Probably the best enchanter? I mean, Helgen was a village of farmers, hunters, and leather workers, all of which are important jobs, don’t get me wrong, but being able to work leather isn’t exactly a skill that would help a person survive an attack by a giant fire breathing lizard.” She offered her, trying to think of some reasons why to reassure her, but she knew logic didn’t always help Jura, that sometimes, it only made things worse.

“I know that, and I understand that, but...” Jura swallowed hard as she trailed off, biting her lip as she took in a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “I just stood there. In the beginning, when the destruction started. While everyone else fled or fought in futility, I didn’t even move. It’s like, I was possessed.” She admitted. “Like someone else’s emotions came over me, and kept me there. The dragon…” She didn’t continue as she buried her face in her hands, gloved fingers threading roughly through scarlet hair, carelessly smearing ash through her hair, her shoulders falling as she slumped against the table.

Charcoal eyes took in the exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin, and the guilt devouring her alive. “There’s no shame in surviving what other people have not. You’re alive and they aren’t, and that’s not some sort of failing on you or on them.” She stated, though she fought to keep the coldness out of her voice. She was an assassin, and sympathy didn’t come easy to her. Countless people died every day, and she’d stopped caring about anyone but herself and her sister years ago.

“It didn’t kill me, Lyra.” Jura confessed, slowly opening her eyes to look up at her sister, only to close them again. “It’s not that it _couldn’t_ , but it simply chose not to.”  
  


Lyra tilted her head curiously, though the gesture didn’t quite have the same innocent look when she did it compared to her rather light-hearted and jovial twin. No, it was more reminiscent of a crow greedily eyeing a particular shiny item, glinting in the light of a setting sun, before swooping in. “And how do you know that?”

“It spoke to me.” A whispered confession, softer than freshly fallen snow, but it sent a chill down Lyra’s spine colder than Skyrim’s harsh winter winds.

“ _What?”_

“It spoke to me.” Jura repeated herself, and elaborated on what happened, forcing herself to sit up as she did so. “I don’t know how I understood it, not really, but I did, and it definitely wasn’t speaking Cyrodilic either. It was speaking Dovahzul.”

“I didn’t think you studied the Dragon Cult.” Lyra stated as she eyed her twin skeptically, but she would let her sister explain. She didn’t have any idea what she’d gotten up to in recent years, not since she’d followed in their mother’s footsteps, and joined the Brotherhood and the Guild, while Jura followed their father’s, and joined the scholars in the College of Winterhold.

“I’m not an expert on ancient Nord culture or the Dragon Cult, but I’m certainly not ignorant about the subjects.” Jura confirmed as she reached back and let her ponytail and the twin braids tied into it fall loose and hang around her face. “But I can’t really think of any reason why I’d be able to understand Dovahzul to the extent of being able to have a conversation with a dragon.” She sighed, glancing up at her sister before resting her face against her arms, disregarding the ash smearing across her face.

Lyra frowned softly, and she took another long, slow drink of her mead, and though she hated the way it burned as it went down her throat and how it slowed her body and numbed her mind, she didn’t put the bottle down until it was empty, and it was only then that she asked, “What’d it say?”

Jura fell silent and tapped her fingers against the tabletop anxiously in favor of answering, keeping her eye lowered and away from the assassin sitting across from her. Hesitation flooded her as she opened her mouth to answer, only to close it, her lips pursing and brow furrowing as she realized she didn’t want to share the conversation she’d had with the ancient creature of legend, legends she’d only halfheartedly believed in, but only because the proof of the dragons' existence was irrefutable.

_If I talk about it, then that makes it real. I can’t just pretend it never happened, that it was just my imagination, or a twisted dream conjured from the wicked mind of Vaermina._

“Never mind then.” Lyra shook her head and offered Jura a soft smile as she slowly pushed herself to her feet, warmth flowing through her limbs from the alcohol, only to be chased down by the familiar numbness. “I’m stealing your bed if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t take up the entire thing, I’ll be laying down in a moment too.” Jura sighed as she followed her up, rubbing her eyes with a tired sigh before slipping out of her crimson cloak, and tossing it on the bed, and removed her circlet, ring, but left both her amulet of Auriel, and the sapphire pendulum, around her neck.

“Fine fine, but buy me breakfast in the morning. If you plan to as well, I’ll stick around Whiterun for a little while.” Lyra suggested as she slipped out of her own navy cloak and laid it down on the bed as well before falling back onto it with a long, drawn-out groan. She didn’t like staying in taverns, but she’d take a bed when she could. She didn’t trust those furs in the slightest, nor did she trust the people out in the rest of the tavern, as she’d fulfilled more than a few contracts for the Brotherhood in taverns much like this one, so she didn’t even begin to unlatch the cobalt armor, preferring to sacrifice comfort for safety.

Jura rolled her eyes, most likely at the demand for free food, while Lyra just grinned up at her, and opened her arms for her sister to lay down, silently demanding her affection. “I didn’t plan on it. I was going to head back up to Winterhold after talking to the Jarl in the morning so we’ll just have to wait and see.” She stated before plopping down beside her, and curling up like a kitten facing the blue twin.

Lyra rolled on her side to face the red twin with a small smile that didn’t meet her eyes as her own dark hair hung loosely around her face, worry darkening her eyes as surely as the shadows creeping forth from the dark crevices of their room.

“Well, whatever you decide, I’ll be here.” She murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as she let the warmth radiating off her sister like a furnace draw the tension from her shoulders, melting into their cloaks like a slowly burning candle dripping down into nothing but a colorful puddle of what once was.

Her words caught in her throat as Jura stared across the bed at her twin, who she’d always known to be less than sentimental, before a small smile cracked across her face at her sister’s reassurance. “Thank you.” She murmured, her whispers fading into nothing when spoken into the velvet lining of their cloaks.

No answer came from her sleeping sister, save for the twitch of her lips into a smile.


	5. Questions and Answers

A never-ending cacophony of the question _why_ echoed through Jura’s mind well into the darkness of the night, haunting her relentlessly, and even once she’d managed to drift into a restless sleep, she was plagued with dreams she’d been having for years but never remembered when she woke, and tonight was no different. As the light of the sun crept through the tavern windows and banished the darkness of the night, it also banished the memories of ash falling like snow.

Despite her claims that she’d stay if Jura did, Lyra wasn’t there when she awoke, and a ghost would’ve left more of a trace than the assassin did. The only evidence she’d been there was the pair of empty bottles left on the table, and a folded up piece of parchment slipped in between her robes and cloak, which she only found once she sat up, and it fell from her clothes.

Even without opening it up and reading it, Jura figured she knew what it said, but that didn’t stop her from scanning it quickly. Just as she suspected, one of her twin’s Dark siblings slipped in to bring her back to the Sanctuary.

_At least I know where to find her if I need her. I hope they haven’t changed the passcode to get in. I know Astrid doesn’t like it when I just walk in._ _I wonder if she’ll actually stab me one of these days like she keeps saying she will._ Jura mused as she straightened herself up, taking advantage of the pail of water and a rag left in the room to wipe as much of the ash and smoke from her clothes as she could, but there was only so much she could get off without a thorough washing, but it would have to do for now, as she knew she should’ve gone to see the Jarl as soon as she’d arrived in the city. Although she had more questions than answers, she still had more answers than anyone else in Whiterun, even if her own questions were different than what everyone else was asking.

_Who cares where it came from, or if there are more? I’m more concerned with what that big ass one was talking about._

Tossing her cloak back around her shoulders, she didn’t so much as say good morning or goodbye to anyone as she left the tavern, squinting as she stepped outside and felt the full fury of the sun’s light against her eye, and dragged her hood up, both to obscure herself from any who didn’t need to know she was there, as well as to protect her remaining eye.

_The one good thing about only having one eye is that I get half the headache from bright lights._ She told herself with a grimace as she went out of her way to take the back path of the walls around Whiterun to the Jarl’s palace, even if the trek up the hill left old childhood injuries aching, it was a small price to pay to avoid being seen. A shattered knee and limp ensured subtlety and sneaking around weren’t on her list of skills. In fact she preferred to stand out and be seen, and while she made a wonderful distraction, she didn’t wish to be seen by any Thalmor that might’ve wormed their way into the city like the incessant pests they were. _It’d be a shame if I had to reduce this city to ash just to squash a few insects, though I doubt they’d be so brazen as to try to attack me in full view of anyone else._

Just as she suspected, Jura made it to the palace with no complications, and though her first instinct to slam open the doors and make a scene burned in her heart, she reined in the childish desire and slipped inside quietly without making too much of a disturbance. The Jarl didn’t even seem to notice her arrival as he argued with his steward, and as she approached the dragon-bone throne, she could hear him state they needed more information before acting, and it was only then that she spoke up, and drew all eyes to her.

“I can help you with that.” She stated boldly, but offered no further information nor did she stand on ceremony as she sat back on the end of the table, biting back the groan of relief threatening to escape her as she took the weight off her leg.

The room fell quiet as the Jarl’s eyes narrowed as he examined her, but as his housecarl stepped forward to interrogate the interloper in their midst, he raised a hand for her to halt. “And who are you?”

“Jura Rhapsodos of The College of Winterhold. I was at Helgen when the dragon attacked.” While not her first time speaking to Nordic royalty, Jura didn’t favor the incessant propriety most Jarl’s demanded, and she could only hope Jarl Balgruuf, known for being a pragmatic and sensitive man, would not either.

“Truly? Speak quickly! Tell me what occurred.” Balgruuf ordered, straightening up in his throne, both eyes on her as he gave her his undivided attention, or so it seemed to her.

“The Imperial Legion and Thalmor were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak, but the dragon showed up before they got the chance.” Jura stated simply as she clasped her hands in her lap as she let her legs dangle off the edge of the table, sitting up straight and keeping her eyes forward. Though she didn’t have much respect for half the Jarls in Skyrim, she knew this one actually cared for his people, and wanted nothing more than the best for them, and that was something she could respect, even if she had no respect for furniture. “Though I doubt you wish for the more-” She trailed off as she debated how to word her thoughts. “-gruesome details, I can share them with you, if you so desire.”

“That...” Jarl Balgruuf frowned as he cut himself off, whatever sentiment he’d been about to express, he smothered before it could leave his throat. “I see. No, such is not necessary. I can imagine what happened after the dragon appeared.” He stated simply before interlacing his fingers together, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his thighs as his brows furrowed, deep in thought. “Is there anything else?”

“No. If you wish to know where it came from or what it wanted, aside from wholesale slaughter, I’m afraid I have no more answers for you.” It wasn’t a lie, not technically, as even though the dragon told her what it wanted from her, it wasn’t as though the shit it said made any sense. _Peel back the vestments of false mortality? What the fuck was that supposed to mean?_ She didn’t know and she doubted the Jarl would either, so she wouldn’t even bring up the dragon’s words.

“Would you be willing to find them for me? Farengar has mentioned you before. If I recall, you specialize in delving into ruins overrun with the undead. Is that correct?”

“It is.” Jura confirmed after a moment’s hesitation, before cocking her head to the side, allowing her hair to slip into her face, obscuring her eyes from view. “Though if you want me to go slogging through a crypt, I want to know what I’m supposed to be looking for first.”

The Jarl looked up at her in silence before closing his eyes, a quiet sigh escaping him, despite his clear efforts to hold it back. “If you choose to walk away, I would not blame you.” He stated lowly, looking at the polished stone floor between his feet before dragging his eyes back up to the mage in front of him.

“I never said I won’t do it, I said I want details before I agree to anything.” Jura kept her voice and gaze level as she looked the Jarl right in the eye, unlocking her fingers in favor crossing her arms. “I’m not the type to just look away and pretend I didn’t see anything.” She assured him, though the words felt wrong rolling off her tongue, like a lie steeped in honey to mask the bitter taste of poison, because even if she wasn’t lying through her teeth, her words weren’t true either.

_Sure, she’d help, but she always collected on debts owed to her. Always, in one way or another. Maybe someone else would be willing to help purely because they’d got a heart of gold, but that someone wasn’t her. She’d cut out and sold her heart for power a long time ago._

“Then speak to my court wizard, Farengar. He’s looking for answers, and if you can help him, then you may be able to help all of Skyrim.”

“Of course. I’ll speak to him right away.” Jura assured him, forcing a smile to her lips, though it didn’t meet the dark cloud fogging her eyes and as she turned on her heel, very different sentiments whispered in the back of her mind. _That’s nice, but I only care about helping myself. I’ll help you get your answers, but only because I want them for myself. Even if I don’t really want to see another village razed to ash, I’m not the kind of_ _idealist he seems to be hoping I am._

It wasn’t hard to find the Wizard’s quarters, all she had to do was follow the scent of magical burning, and the squawk of some pitiful creature unfortunate enough to be caught by a mage. Just as Jura expected, Farengar was hunched over at his desk, pouring over what seems to be an older map of the province, and he didn’t even look up at as he spoke.

“You’re in the wrong place. Whatever petty concerns you have are not my responsibility. Go see the Jarl’s housecarl or steward if you have questions.” He dismissed her, clearly focusing completely on the work he had set out in front of him rather than visitor at his door.

Jura clicked her tongue as her eyes narrowed at the blithe dismissal and rolled her eyes as she stepped into the laboratory, taking note of the various books carelessly scattered throughout the room, some still open, as if dropped in a hurry to throw open a different one. A carefully bound journal on the desk caught her eye, the dark, dyed leather making it stand out among the other scattered books, and ignoring the mage she’d come to see, she picked it up to examine it closer, running feather-light fingers down the intricately carved leather, the dragon on the front still visible despite its age. Even if she didn’t consider herself to be a Nord any more than she considered herself an Altmer, she couldn’t deny that her ancestors took great care to preserve their works, and it was a shame more books from that time were not preserved as well as the one in her hands, though it seemed this one had never been exposed to the damp and dank tombs littering Skyrim.

_Where oh where did Farengar get this? He’s not exactly the type to go scrounging around through old ruins like a scavengers, so I doubt he found it himself. Did some halfwit treasure hunter sell it to him?_ Jura wondered before shaking her head with a rueful smile. _No, that’s even more unlikely than a court wizard so much as considering an expedition himself. A treasure hunter finding value in books? Bah._

“Do _not_ touch things that do not belong to you! Who do you think you are, coming in here and just picking up whatever catches your eye?!” Farengar snapped, his attention on her now that he’d noticed she’d touched something he deemed his.

He reached forward to snatch the book out of her hands, but Jura swatted it away as she took a step away from him, gold and ruby eyes more interested in what she held in her hands than what he had to say.

Farengar paused now as she stepped out of his reach, his eyes narrowing to angry slits as he examined her. “Eye...” He muttered, taking a step back as he took note of the ruby she’d shoved in her eye socket.

“Don’t assume that something belongs to you simply because you found it.” She muttered under her breath as she eyed the intricate lock keeping the journal closed, running a single gloved finger against the polished metal clasp. Seeing no hole for a key, she assumed it was sealed by magic, and doubtfully wouldn’t open unless exposed to the proper spell, and she wasn’t about to start testing them. Despite the wards embedded into the journal, the protective magic tingling against her skin, she wanted to take her time studying this. “But I’ll take it as payment.” She declared as she gave Farengar the same disregard and disrespect he’d shown her.

“Excuse me?” Both disbelief and anger colored his voice as he snapped at her, rounding the desk between them, though he didn’t make a second attempt to take the book back from her yet. “Who are you to come in here and think you have the right to make such demands?”

“Jura Rhapsodos, as I’m sure you’re already well aware. And no one _gives_ me the right to do anything, _I take it_.” Jura declared as she met the other mage’s glare with her own level, mismatched stare. No flinching, no looking away. She’d stared down worse than one pissy mage. Actually, she’d stared down a lot of pissy mages before, them and their pet undead. “And if you want me to perform the job the Jarl has requested of me, you’ll make no complaints. While I’d rather not simply walk away, it’s not as though you or anyone else here could stop me if I so desired.”

Farengar fell silent at her words, but the scowl stayed put as he eyed her, twisting across his face like an angry viper, coiling and ready to strike. Whiterun’s court wizard had a reputation, like all wizards of course, and his spoke of his arrogance, and his incessant refusal to take no for an answer. Like many who dabbled in magic, and even like herself, if he truly wanted something, he’d take it, but slowly, he lowered his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way then, Rhapsodos.” He spat out, bitterly as he turned on his heel and returned to his desk, tossing a gesture over his shoulder for her to follow him.

Jura, deciding it best to put a bit of distance between them for the moment, waited before deigning to follow behind him, and looked over his desk from the opposite end from him. Now that she had his attention on her, and not the book she was essentially stealing, they could get down to business.

“So, where am I going, what am I looking for, and why am I looking for it?” She asked, getting straight to the point. The less time she had to spend around another mage, the better in her eyes. She knew just how insufferable they could be, after all, she was one of them.

Farengar refused to even look at her in favor of studying the map in front of him, before tapping at it with a single finger.

“Fine. Here’s what you need to know...”


	6. Frost and Bone

The trip to Bleaksfall Barrow was both tedious and time consuming, despite making the trek up to the nearby village on horseback. The sky split open in a torrent of rain as she’d left the stables at Whiterun, and the only thing worse than the cold when it came to making her bones ache was rain. By the time she made it to Riverwood, she found herself no longer in need of a bath, as the rain drenched her thoroughly, and despite staying at the inn for the night to wait the rain out, everything the rain clung to froze overnight, turning Skyrim’s autumnal scenery into a picture of an early winter.

Opting to leave her horse in the careful, and well paid, hands of a farmer in Riverwood rather than risk him getting injured on the way to the ruins, Jura took the beaten path through the mountain on foot, each step accompanied with a sharp jab of pain arcing through her leg like lightning streaking across the sky, and the crunch of icy dead leaves crumbling under foot. She kept her staff in hand and at the ready, anticipating trouble when she reached the ruins. Indeed, she’d shooed away more than a few hungry wolves coming up the path, the golden flames soaring to life along the moonstone blade more than enough to dissuade their hungry prowling, and convince them to find easier prey.

Like blood against snow, the crimson of her cloak fluttered with every gust of wind coming off the mountain, Jura knew anyone lurking outside the ruins would be able to see her coming, and she was fine with that. Twirling her staff in her fingers as she approached the stone steps leading up to the ruins, she could see shadows of people moving around, but a chill ran down her spine as she looked closer, and it wasn’t from the early wintry winds.

She closed the eye she had left, and focused on the ruby she’d fashioned into an artificial instead, and the enchantment she’d etched into it. The enchantment was an ever constant detect dead spell, but without funneling more magicka into it, the spell only faintly illuminated nearby corpses. Now, she pushed more magic into the spell, amplifying it, and confirmed her suspicions. The shadows lit up with a vibrant, icy glow as they shambled around the ruin.

A scowl swept across her lips as she stormed up the steps, staff lighting up with golden flames once more, and with a sweep in front of her, streams of fire shot forth in waves, incinerating the dead as they spun on broken bones and dead limbs to face her. The dead always wore the last expression they’d made before dying and these all wore matching looks of horror. Horror and anguish. Plastered on their exsanguinated faces like paint on a jester.

Whoever they once were didn’t matter as much as what they were now, and all they were now were a necromancer’s pets, so Jura put them down as one might a rabid animal, but as the first wave of flame greedily devoured the dead, she prepared for the shamblers further away to jump into action, yet, they did nothing. The shamblers did not look at her, much less attempt to attack her, and even as mismatched eyes narrowed, Jura lowered her staff to her side as she watched the undead stare past her with cloudy, unseeing eyes, as if they didn’t even notice she was standing there, as if they didn’t even realize they were being attacked with pure hatred. Twirling her staff from one hand to the other, she walked up to one of the passive shamblers, and took its face in her hand, dragging it down by the chin to have a closer look at it, and the undead didn’t react at all to her touch.

The faint glow of violet necromantic magic burned softly behind the corpse’s unseeing eyes, with hints of icy blue sparks flickering in them, and as the golden glow of her magic sprung to life in her hands, it didn’t react even as she turned it to ash in her hands.

Slowly, Jura shook the glistening ash from her gloves, the incessant eldritch dust clinging to the fur as she stared blankly with unseeing eyes at the ashes littering the ruins where the abomination once stood. She dragged her eyes down to stare at the ghostly, glowing dust sprinkled across her boots. All that was left of what was once a person with hopes and dreams, ideals and lines they wouldn’t cross, now nothing more than dust. Dust picked up and scattered by a sudden gust of Skyrim’s winter winds.

_They were still people…_

She stared blankly, until a frown crept across her lips, followed by a snarl slipping past her lips. Gold and ruby eyes narrowed, and she kicked the pile of ashes, scattering what was left of them before storming forward, and throwing open the doors to the ruin.

The air inside the ruins was cold, and tinged with the scent of rotting vegetation, and the fresher smells that came with death. She wasn’t surprised to see that littering the inner vestibule of the ruins were more bodies, though unlike those outside, these corpses didn’t walk, they were like most corpses: they didn’t do anything except make a mess everywhere, and standing in the middle of a ring of bodies, with magic still frosting at her fingertips was Lysandra.

* * *

  
  


Lysandra showed the bandits skulking around the ruins as much mercy as she showed the skeevers: none at all. They were vermin, and their lives didn’t matter to hers anymore than an insect’s would, so why would she be bothered about using their worthless corpses as tools? It wasn’t as though they’d been doing anything useful with them when they were alive, they might as well make themselves useful in death as her weapons.

  
  


The screech of Nordic black-steel slamming into ancient stone drew both her attention and an eye roll as she turned to face the newcomer, knowing exactly who it was.

  
  


“You walk in and you immediately throw a tantrum. How typical of you.” Lysandra scoffed as she let her magic fade away, the only traces left of it the thin layers of frost clinging to the fur of her gauntlets, as well as the ice skewering the bandits like spears, pinning them to the walls and floor like a pin through a butterfly’s wing.

  
  


“Lysandra.” Jura’s voice as she addressed her was colder than the snow swirling outside, colder than the heart in the necromancer’s chest. “What are you doing here, other than pissing me off?”

  
  


“I’m here for the good of everyone.” Lysandra stated coolly, tucking her single braid, silvery white intertwined with gold, back behind her ear as she took a step forward towards Jura, approaching the other mage slowly, circling her even as Jura mirrored her movements, like a pair of lone wolves sizing each other up, determining the threat the other might pose to them. Would they attack each other? Walk away? Or perhaps, even work together?

  
  


Jura laughed, _a sound Lysandra would’ve killed for once, but now hearing it sent a shiver down her spine,_ and shook her head, brushing her bangs back out of her face as she did so. “The good of everyone? Nice joke. Really funny. You should give up necromancy and become a court jester instead.” Jura smiled cheerily, though it didn’t reach her eye, before dropping it, replaced with furrowed brows and a scowl instead. “Not really. You’re as full of shit as usual. “

  
  


A snarl slipped past ivory lips as she stared down the pyromancer, bristling at her words and the stone at her feet started frosting over. She took in a deep breath, and as she tried to rein in her agitation, running her hands through her golden hair, gripping at the locks slipping like silk through her fingers, she let it out as a sigh, releasing her hair as she did so.

  
  


“Do we have to do this, Jura? Right here? Right now?” She whispered as she lowered her hands to her sides, slowly shaking her head as she did so. “We’re here for the same reason, to get answers. Do you really want to put the rest of Skyrim in danger because you’d rather fight than find what we’re here to find?”

  
  


“Skyrim’s already in danger, regardless of what we do here.” Jura stated coolly, a sharp contrast to the fire in her molten gold eye.

  
  


Lysandra eyed her oldest friend critically, tilting her head slowly, almost like a puppy. _What is she getting at…?_ “That’s not the point.”

  
  


Hollow and harsh, like a rock clattering against a stone street, Jura laughed. “Isn’t it though? You act like the dragons are the only danger that people face. They’re not. They’re just the newest.”

  
  


“So what?” Lysandra deadpanned before shaking her head slowly, rubbing her eyes and letting out a sigh. “You think we should just ignore them? Pretend they aren’t here and try to live life as normal?” _Has your quest against the Thalmor truly left you so jaded?_

  
  


“If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here, I’d be halfway to Winterhold now.”

  
  


Lysandra found herself losing her patience with her old lover and fast. _If she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m just leaving her here._

  
  


“Then what _are_ you trying to say, Jura?”

  
  


“That people die every day and that while Helgen was a tragedy, we shouldn’t go around pretending that Skyrim isn’t crawling with all sorts of dangers. Wild animals, bandits, _rogue mages_.”

  
  


Of course that’s what this was about. Of _course_ it was! Lysandra wasn’t even sure why she was surprised, but she’d hoped Jura wouldn’t bring it up when they both had bigger problems to worry about right now. “Oh for Talos’ sake, you’re still bitching about my magic?”

  
  


Jura’s fingers twitched, and a gold spark flickered between her fingertips before fading as she pointed towards her accusingly. “You’re a necromancer! Don’t pretend its something innocent and harmless!”

  
  


“Magic is magic! All that matters is why it’s used!” Lysandra protested before snapping back, “My necromancy is no different than your cavorting with Daedra.”

  
  


“It’s completely different!” Jura stated, mismatched eyes narrowing to dangerous gold and crimson slits. “Daedra are neither people, nor do they consider us as people, and summoning them doesn’t require them to fucking _die._ They can be summoned and bound without completely stripping them of personality and dignity. That’s completely different than killing people just so you can add their _corpses_ to your arsenal of weapons.”

  
  


“You say that as if I go around slaughtering people in cities and flooding the streets with blood!” Lysandra scoffed, throwing her hands up incredulously, before crossing her arms. “They were _just_ bandits! They might as well have been-”

  
  


“They were people!” Jura cut her off before she could finish her words, and she continued before she could recover from the interruption. “They were people with their own hopes and dreams, their own wishes and desires! You could’ve tossed a pacify spell at them and walked right on by, but you didn’t.” Jura took a deep breath, golden magic lighting up under her skin, as if the blood in her veins lit up with her anger. “You killed them, for no reason other than because you could.”

  
  


Somehow, just when Lysandra thought Jura couldn’t be any more sanctimonious, her old love managed to prove her wrong. Gritting her teeth, she shook her head before turning on her heel and storming forward into the ruins.

  
  


“Where do you think you’re going, Lysandra?”

  
  


She could hear Jura call from behind her but she didn’t bother even tossing a look over her shoulder as she pushed forward. “I’m going ahead, with or without your approval. You can come if you want, but don’t get in my way, Jura.” She declared as she stepped around the shards of a shattered urn, trying to shake off the shiver running down her spine, caused not by the tense atmosphere in the ruin, nor the chill of her frost magic, but by molten gold eyes burning into her back like stars piercing through the darkness of the night.

  
  


Lysandra didn’t need to look behind herself to know the choice Jura made.


	7. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jura makes her way through Bleakfalls Barrow with Lysandra, reminiscing on the problems both new and old that she has with her old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT!! There is both mentions of emotional abuse and gaslighting as well as blatant gaslighting in this chapter, so if that is something you find triggering, please don't read the chapter, and just wait for the next one.

Jura never considered slogging through a tomb a good time, even though she’d chosen to make a career out of it. Even if it wasn’t unbearable or even difficult, it was still tedious and unpleasant, and at times, she wondered how she ended up in the business of solving other people’s problems for them, but all it took to remind herself of why was a quick glance to the mage at her side.

_Oh yeah, because people like her exist._ She reminded herself. _Because people like her took everything from me._

She could still remember the sky that night. A dazzling sea of violets and blues, mixing in ways that would make any artist die crying as they failed to replicate the iridescent swirls because how could the works of men ever compare to the works of the gods? She stopped believing in the gods that night. She could still smell the smoke clouding over Windhelm as her home burned to the ground. She could still feel the ash burning her throat as she screamed.

_No, stop._ She berated herself, her jaw clenching as her legs obeyed her command even as her memories didn’t. _I don’t want to think about what happened that night._

“What, is it naptime, Jura?” Lysandra’s voice sounded from behind her as the necromancer stepped around her to take the lead, tossing a raised eyebrow over her shoulder at the other mage.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, and to wack her with her staff, Jura shook her head. “Not for me, but if you want to curl up with a draugr, then by all means, feel free to.”

“Think you’re funny, do you?”

“Sweetheart, you’ve known me how long and you’re just now finding this out?” There was no affection in Jura’s voice, despite her choice of words. “I think I’m hilarious.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.” Lysandra didn’t spare her a look as she pulled a chain to open a gate, only for a draugr to come bursting out of a nearby sarcophagus.

_She knows I despise necromancy,_ _and she knows why_ _._ _So why_ _must she insist on using it in front of me?_ Jura fumed as she drove the blade of her staff through the chest of a draugr as it rushed towards her with its ax raised above its head, stepping to the side as the heavy weapon fell from the draugr’s slack grip, and keeping her eyes off the necromancer to her right, who had more interest in raising the draugr to fight for her so she could file her nails instead of fighting them herself. _If only she…_ She forced herself to cut the thought short. _There’s no point in dwelling on the what ifs. She’s made her choice, just as I’ve made mine, and even if I don’t agree with them, its_ _her decision._

This wasn’t the first time Jura traversed the depths of an old ruin with Lysandra, but it had been a while, and she’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to fight by her side: equal parts exhilarating and infuriating. Despite being from the most vehemently anti-magic part of Skyrim, there was more magical talent in a single strand of Lysandra’s golden hair than there was in half the people who sought entrance to the college, but as she watched her raise draugr as they traveled through the crypt, Jura had to bite her tongue to keep from voicing her disgust, and to keep her revulsion from giving her a chance to taste her breakfast for the second time.

Without a word, she wrenched the glistening blade out of the walking corpse, disgust rising in her throat at the rank scent of embalming fluid dripping off the blade. She might be used to the smell, but it was still disgusting, and she still had to bite back her nausea as she twirled her staff by her side, sending up a shower of sparks as the blade screeched against stone, earning her a cringe and a dirty look from Lysandra, which she promptly ignored, eyeing the swinging axes in front of them instead.

Aside from the bits and pieces of bitter banter, they hadn’t spoken as they traversed the ruins. Well, they’d talked, but they hadn’t _talked._ Lysandra pointed out pressure plates and other traps set up, and in return, Jura pointed out which draugr were truly dead, and which were merely waiting, but for people who’d known each other their entire lives, they spoke less than they would if they’d been strangers. They didn’t giggle and joke like they would’ve if they were years younger. Before Lysandra dove into necromancy, these halls would’ve been filled with their voices and laughter as they used to talk about anything and everything, just because they liked to hear the sound of the other’s voice.

_There was absolutely no sneaking up on anything back then. Lyra used to hate going anywhere with us._ Jura fought the smile threatening to break across her face as memories swirled to the surface of her thoughts, even if they tasted bittersweet now. It hurt, and Jura would be lying if she said it didn’t. They used to be as close as two people possibly could, but now, their relationship had been reduced to _this_. This silent animosity lingering in the air, simmering and waiting, like flammable gas in an underground mine, waiting for a single spark to set it off in a chain explosion that’d leave nothing but shattered bones and bloody ash in its wake.

_But that’s what necromancy does. It rips people apart in every way possible, even if they’re lucky enough to walk away whole._ She reminded herself bitterly as she watched the axes swinging from side to side.

_T_ _here are three of them. Can I make it past all of them without stopping?_ Her brows furrowed in concentration as she debated it. She was putting all her weight on her right leg, but as she shifted part of it to her left leg, her knee immediately buckled, bringing her crashing down to the slimy, cold stone.

“Damn it, that figures.” She grumbled to herself as she dug the butt of her staff into a crevice in between two stones and slowly hoisted herself back up to her feet, her bad left leg shaking under her weight, and it was only her staff secure in the ground bearing the brunt of her weight that kept her on her feet.

“Relax, I got this.” Lysandra stated as she eyed the trembling pyromancer, shaking her head as if scolding a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar as she stood in front of the trap filled hallway. “If you try to pass through, you’ll just end up getting cut in half.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Jura grumbled, averting her eyes from the judgmental look the necromancer gave her.

Lysandra scoffed but said nothing as she eyed the swinging axes in silence. She counted the seconds between the different swings and after what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, she made her move. After the first ax passed the middle, she darted forward, timing her steps perfectly to slip past both the second and third axes with little effort.

“You’re a mess, did you know that?” Lysandra called from across the hall over the sound of the swinging blades, but Jura didn’t respond.

Once Lysandra hit the lever and the axes swung to a stop, Jura followed her across, shaking her head. So far, they’d managed not to trigger any other traps, but some of the draugr up and walking around hadn’t been so lucky. Neither had that Dunmer that’d been caught by the spider queen.

_What a fool._ She shook her head. _He should’ve just handed over the claw, and contented himself with living to rob someone else another day. But no, he had to let his greed get the better of himself._

Jura could still remember the fear etched on his corpse’s face when Lysandra recovered the golden claw from his body, but she forced the memory from her mind as she incinerated a draugr coming out of its sarcophagus, before nailing the two archers shambling across the bridge ahead of them with a pair of fireballs.

_Best not to dwell on it. Countless people like him have wasted their lives, casually throwing them away in pursuit of riches and power in halls like these. It’s only thanks to people like me that these halls don’t get completely drenched in blood._ She reminded herself as she twirled her staff in one hand as she stepped around the burning draugr, giving the flailing undead a wide berth as she headed to the bridge she knocked them off of.

“How deep do you think we are?” Lysandra asked from behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she could see ice spikes flying past her head directly into the chests of the draugr on the lower floor, bringing their death spasms to an end.

“Deep enough.” Jura answered simply as she opened the large double doors at the end of the bridge.

“The Hall of Stories.” Lysandra murmured as she took in the corridor ending in one of her people’s infamous puzzle doors, stepping past the threshold only after taking note of a lack of traps in the hall, which she found odd, considering they were often littered in a variety of them, from pressure plates to rigged wires and spell traps. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in one of these.” She mentioned as she ignored the door at the end in favor of looking up at the carvings etched into the walls, the corners of her lips curving into a faint smile as she reached up with gloved finger tips, and ran a single finger along the wing of a pictured dragon. She assumed it was a dragon, at least.

“What do you think this place might’ve been?” She wondered aloud before looking over her shoulder at Jura, only to see that she was doing much of the same thing as her, except, her lips were moving silently.

“It’s a tomb.” Jura stated dryly, rolling her eyes as she pulled her glove off with her teeth before placing her hand flat against the cold stone wall. “One of the old dragon priests. An apprentice is buried here.” She spoke without even looking at Lysandra. Instead, she knelt down in front of the wall, brushing the dust away from the dragon speak etched into the ancient stone.

“As good of a guess as any, I suppose.”

“I’m not guessing.”

Lysandra turned to face her completely, a single brow raised at her words, before narrowing her eyes. “And how do you know that?”

“Because it says so right here.” Jura answered simply, as if she could actually read it.

_But that’s not possible. Dovahzul is notoriously difficult to learn. It takes years of study, regardless of whether you’re learning to use the Thu’um, and Jura’s never cared for learning the language._ Lysandra reminded herself as she stepped forward to look at the writing that Jura pointed out.

“Hmm… Hard to tell what it says.” Lysandra muttered as she eyed the claw-mark-like runes, trailing a finger down the symbols etched into the stone. “Hmm… I only recognize one word… _Boz_ _aa_ _k._ It means bold if I recall.” Lysandra mused as she circled the word slowly. “Take a rubbing of them. Maybe Urag has a book or two that can help translate them.” She told her, glancing down at the pyromancer beside her.

“I just told you what it says.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes at her words before brushing the dirt from her clothes. “You gave it your best shot, I’m sure.” She answered patronizingly, patting the pyromancer’s shoulder. Her eyes widened before narrowing when Jura threw her hand off before rising to her feet, and Lysandra found herself on the dangerous end of burning eyes.

“Just because you can’t read it properly doesn’t mean no one else can.” She snapped before shaking her head. “You couldn’t understand what that dragon was saying either when I could, so what does that tell you?”

“That you’re as delusional as ever.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

Lysandra figured she was about to piss her off with what she was about to say, but she could live with that. After all, her hot-headed friend wasn’t really ever known for her rationality. “Look, you know as well as I do that you take to Sheogorath more than any other Daedra or Aedra, and frankly, if you’ve got yourself convinced you can read and speak Dovahzul without any effort, then you’ve lost it.” She stated matter of factly, as she directed a pitying look to her old friend. “Because as it stands, only the Dragonborn can speak it without training, and you’re obviously not Dragonborn, because as you well know, only Nords are.”

The air crackled with energy as heat filled the tomb, and if Lysandra didn’t know any better, she’d think a draugr set off a fire trap outside of the room, but she did know better.

Glowing gold through her skin, she could see Jura’s blood boiling with both fury and power as she stared at Lysandra.

“How about you just say what you’re thinking, instead of trying to beat around the bush about it?” Jura hissed, and if looks could kill, Lysandra knew she’d be on fire.

“Fine.” Lysandra scoffed and rolled her eyes. “The only logical explanation for what’s going on is that you’re losing your mind. The only way any of what you’re claiming could be true is if you’re Dragonborn, which you’re not, because you’re not a Nord, you’re not even half a Nord. You’re-” Lysandra bit her tongue, her voice trailing off.

“I’m what, Lysandra?” Jura snarled, roughly popping her fingers as she fought the urge to swing. “Go on! Say it! You might as well finish the sentence. We both know what you’re thinking!” She demanded.

Lysandra only remained silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Jura spat in disgust, walking around her. “For as proud as you are for being a “true” Nord, you have more in common with the Thalmor than I do.”

Lysandra spun on her heel and grabbed Jura’s wrist, pulling her back to face her with a hard look in her eyes. “How dare you, stooping to petty insults simply because you’re wrong and you know it? You owe me an apology.” She demanded, indignation dripping from her voice like venom from a viper’s fangs.

“I owe you nothing.” Gold clashed with silver as the mages glared at each other, only to be broken with no victor as Jura pulled her arm out of her grasp. “The next time you lay a hand on me will be the last time that you have hands. Consider this your only warning.”

Passing her staff to her other hand as both a warning and a barrier between herself and Lysandra, Jura stepped around her as if she was just another corpse on the floor and stood in front of the puzzle door. She lined up the right symbols before unlocking the door with the claw she’d taken off of Lysandra when she wasn’t looking, and with careful steps, entered the open cavern before her.

“I do hope you know you can’t keep that claw.” Lysandra huffed as she followed the pyromancer into the cavern.

“Do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.” Jura bit back as the scrape of steel against stone stole her attention, and she thrust her staff out in front of Lysandra as she poured magic into the enchantment in her eye.

“What now?” Lysandra snapped, her voice loud like sparks against stone compared to the quiet trickling of running water in the cavern, and her eyes narrowed, as if straining to see what Jura saw, or to set her on fire with a look.

“Another draugr.” Jura whispered exasperated, the silent _what else_ in her voice louder than the words she actually spoke. She sacrificed her real sight to focus on her enchanted eye, and like a torch lit with Meridian flames, a vibrantly glowing figure appeared in the distance. “But different.”

Its shape was blurry at first, but Jura wasn’t bothered, as they always were, but as she poured more power into her enchantments, the Draugr slowly began to take shape from the iridescent gold smoke in her vision.

_That’s an odd color for my enchantment to register as._ Jura noted in confusion as she stared at the draugr. _I don’t think I’ve_ _ **ever**_ _seen anything manifest as gold._ _Just who was this draugr?_

Shaking the confusion from her mind, she filed the knowledge away for later as she focused on the undead.She could see each and every monochromatic detail. From the horns rising up from its helm like spires, to the wickedly sharp spikes lining the pauldrons of its armor. The distinct shape of Nordic black-steel wrapped securely around sunken skin, encasing ancient bones that walked, but had no place in doing so.

Jura extinguished the spell, and the image disappeared as if it had never been there. Even though she opened her eyes, she felt more blind than when she’d had them closed. But even without her detection spell, she could hear each rhythmic beat of the draugr’s dead heart. She could hear each raspy, unliving breath the draugr took. She could hear each creak of ancient bones. And as the draugr burst from the sarcophagus, she could hear its angry screech. She could hear it ordering them to die.

Time slowed as the draugr lunged for them. No, for _L_ _ysandra_. It didn’t even seem to notice Jura as it pulled the blade from its back mid stride, the light gleaming off the abyssal Nordic black-steel did little to dull the wickedly jagged edge as it swung forward to cleave Lysandra’s head from her shoulders, but she did not lift a finger to defend herself.

The blade did not hit its mark. It clattered to the ground, falling from bony fingers as the draugr hit the back wall, thrown by the force of golden magic. Glistening and gleaming with the rage of the sun, golden spectral spears embedded themselves in the draugr’s chest, pinning it down against the crumbling stone word wall still chanting its strange, eerie song.

The draugr whimpered weakly at Jura for the attack, raising its hands, to point at her accusingly or so she thought at first, before tilting them palms up as if to ask her why, and if she didn’t know better, Jura would’ve thought it sounded almost _sad_ , but she didn’t waste her energy trying to figure out why it would make such a gesture towards her. Instead, a final burning spear of light shot from her hands and impaled the draugr, searing into its head, and as the spell hit its mark, the draugr's hands fell, and its entire body fell limp, hung up on the wall only by the force of her magic.

She stared at the limp body, and she didn’t realize it at first, but she was shaking. A familiar hollowness rose from the pit of her stomach up into her chest, and she felt a strange wetness dripping down her face.

_Am I...bleeding?_ The thought drifted through her mind sluggishly, as if wading through waist deep mud, as she lifted her trembling hands up to touch her face. As she wiped the wetness away, she stared at her hands, but found more questions than answers. _No… I’m… Crying._ The realization hit her with all the force of a tsunami striking an unsuspecting shore. _But why?_

“Jura?” She heard her name being called, but it sounded far away so she ignored it in favor of trying to steady her shaking hands. She gripped the front of her robes and she could feel her heart pounding in chest but even though she could feel it, it didn’t feel real. She felt cold, and hollow. There was a void in her chest and even though she could feel her heart pound like a stone clattering through a cave after being kicked by a careless explorer, she was colder than the grave.

_This despair… It_ _doesn’t feel as though it belongs to me… But who else could it belong to? The only emotions I can feel are my own,_ _so why?_

“Jura?” The voice persisted, and a flickering spark of irritation burned through her, the void in her heart quickly consumed the raw emotion, and left her no less hollow.

_Wh_ _at is this-_ She wondered, but the thought was cut short by a fist slamming into her face, and throwing her to the floor.

This time, it wasn’t mere sparks dancing in the hollow of her heart, a flare of red hot fury rose up in her like steam rising when red hot metal is plunged into water, and a snarl ripped out of her throat as she found herself up on her hands and knees. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, and before she could muster the will to hold back, her right fist was swinging right at the source of her new found rage, almost without any prompting from her, and as her reinforced gauntlet landed solid against Lysandra’s jaw, Jura found herself furious, an emotion Lysandra had been shoving her face in over and over the entire time they’d been in this tomb.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jura demanded, her fingers curled into talons reaching forward and snatching up the collar of Lysandra’s cloak before she could fall to the ground, wrenching the other mage forward towards her, the phantom despair dissipating in the face of her rage.

It was almost funny how the chill that gripped her heart could only be ripped away by the flames of anger, but in this moment, Jura couldn’t decide what she was pissed about. Being hit? Her emotions being hijacked and submerging her in a pain she couldn’t explain? Lysandra letting herself nearly be killed by that draugr for who knows what? Maybe just Lysandra in general? _She’s had that effect recently._

“Heh…” A quiet laugh escaped Lysandra as she didn’t try to fight the angry mage pulling her closer. In fact, she didn’t bother answering at all as she reached up and wiped away the thin bead of blood trickling down her chin from where Jura busted her lip before licking it off her lips. “You get into a couple brawls while I was gone? I don’t remember you having this kind of strength.”

“What part of this situation do you fucking find funny?” Jura snarled, digging her claws into the pale, delicate flesh she knew lurked under the thick, heavy robes Lysandra always wore.

“The part where you proved you can’t live without me.” Lysandra smirked up at her, a devious gleam in her eyes, dark as the sky at midnight in the dim lighting of the dank tomb.

Jura loosened her grip, and let go of her as she took a step away from her, shaking her head with a disgusted scoff falling from her lips like a stone tossed into the sky, chased like a shot of whiskey by a mirthless laugh. “I don’t know what you’ve been drinking to voice such foolishness, but I’d love a taste of it. I don’t need you.”

Lysandra laughed cheerily, and mockingly, as she pulled on her robes and straightened them. “Of course you do.” She stated, smug as ever before continuing, “You had the chance to be rid of me, after all. I didn’t lift a finger to save my life.” She reminded her, twirling a thick lock of golden hair around her finger before tossing it over her shoulder. “You acted on your own to save me. If that’s not proof enough that you can’t stand the thought of me leaving you, then I don’t know is.”

“Look who’s delusional now.” Jura fumed, dragging her fingers through her hair roughly, careless of how she butchered her ponytail when she did so, shaking her head as she took a step away from the other mage, trying to calm herself down before she hit her again.

“Considering that you’re still denying your feelings, I’d say it’s still you.” Lysandra giggled, as she watched Jura stalk away like a pouting sabrecat, unhappy that their ambush failed, and their prey wasn’t as unsuspecting as it thought it was. “If you really don’t care, then you wouldn’t get so angry. That’s just the facts, dear.”

_She’s beyond infuriating._ Jura snarled, her hands clenched into fists as she turned her back on Lysandra, approaching the word wall. _I’m sick of it._ She told herself, but she’d told herself that many times before. How long ago did she first tell herself she wouldn’t put up with this shit any more? That she wouldn’t tolerate the constant undermining, Lysandra’s need to always be right, to always be better, going so far as to spit on her family to elevate herself even an inch higher? Jura wasn’t sure, but as she plucked the Dragon-stone from the sarcophagus, she’d decided she’d had enough.

_This ends. Now._

Holding the heavy stone in one arm, Jura turned slowly to face Lysandra now. With a flick of her wrist, an ooze green bolt of light flew from her hand and struck Lysandra square in the chest, throwing her backwards off her feet. Smothering the flicker of worry as she watched the necromancer collide with the stone and dirt floor of the tomb from the weight of her paralysis spell, she stared down her nose at her. “Here’s what else is “just the facts.” I have the Dragon-stone, and all you have is your chronic “I’m a bitch” disease. I’m leaving, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

Without another word, Jura reached down, and tugged the ruby pendulum out from under Lysandra’s robes, and dropped it straight on the ground. It clattered against the ancient stone, no worse for wear from the contact, though it shattered as she brought her heel down upon it. Turning away from her former friend, she ripped the matching sapphire pendulum from her neck, and threw it carelessly over her shoulder as she walked away, leaving Lysandra behind for the second time.


End file.
